


Pet

by beltainefaerie



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Assault, Electricity, Kidnapping, Kitty play, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Rape, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-23
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-27 10:54:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/977974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beltainefaerie/pseuds/beltainefaerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty has John and metes out unusual taunting and torture for both John and Sherlock. Will Sherlock be able to find him in time?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With John’s personality, especially his loyalty, puppy play would make more sense, but this just felt like the right kind of wrong. Forgive me.
> 
> (I've never written anything as dark as this before, so please be more gentle with me than Moriarty is with John.)
> 
> Some tags will apply to later chapters. Others may be added as necessary. If there is anything that should be tagged and isn't, please let me know!  
> On my original, Moriarty's notes are in a lovely handwriting font. If anyone knows how to make that happen here, please be kind enough to let me know.  
> \---

John glared up at the madman, who was taking pictures.

 

Ears, which somehow moved now and again were perched on the doctor’s head. He awoke with those in place and it took the rest of the accoutrements, added one by one, for John to figure out what they must be.   _Seriously. He was being made into a cat?  A bloody cat?_

 

But there could be no doubt. John had seen the collar when Jim put it on him. A deep blue leather band set with sparkling stones, encircled his neck, _hell, knowing Moriarty, they were probably actual diamonds_ , and completed with a bell that jingled softly when he moved. He couldn’t take it off. Even if it wasn’t locked in place, the khaki colored mitts made it impossible to use his hands properly. They were printed with ridiculous little rubberized pads like paws, proportioned to the palms of his hands.

 

But by far the worst was the tail. The first day, he had managed to dislodge it fairly readily. Unfortunately, when it was forcibly replaced, Jim didn’t even bother with lubricant, sliding it in and out roughly a few times before leaving it firmly in place. “Bad kitty!” he said, and actually swatted John’s nose, before leaning in and whispering. His voice was low and sweet as though this was some kind of an endearment, “Take it out again without permission and I’ll use you myself until you need to be stitched back together.” As he stood back up, he mugged for the camera in the corner of the room and added in lilting tones, “So you know just how to indicate when you want that.”

 

\----

It had been 16 hours since John was kidnapped outside the surgery when the packages started arriving. In the first picture, John Watson a proud man by nature, a brave soldier, a brilliant doctor, lay curled up on a large pet bed, hopefully merely sleeping, naked with the exception of the sandy-colored ears, tail and his hands were obscured in some kind of restraint. It was framed tightly, offering no clues to his whereabouts. It was captioned simply: **Aren’t pets just adorable?**

 

The following day, the second envelope arrived, this one containing an 8x10 print of a frame from surveillance footage and showed John awake. His eyes looked murderous. Who knows what he had been told to make him comply, but he stood still and proud at parade rest and looked neither beaten nor bowed. How it was possibly for someone to look regal when dressed as ridiculously as this? Sherlock didn’t know, but there was a defiant tilt to John’s strong jaw that made him want to kiss the man. _If he breaks you, I will kill him slowl_ y, Sherlock thought. The note attached said: **Why get my own when I can just steal yours?**

 

The third was a short video clip, where Moriarty violated John with an anal toy attached to a long cat tail, then threatened him somehow, but the words were too low to hear and it was maddeningly just at the wrong angle to read Jim’s lips. Sherlock threw the nearest mug across the kitchen before he was able to watch it again, taking in the pale granite of the walls, the aged, stained concrete floor, looking for any clues as to where John was being held.


	2. Chapter 2

 

One message per day. How was this the fourth? There was less defiance in those deep blue eyes, but still not submission. He was on all fours, head lowered to eat something from a small metal bowl. **I was beginning to worry about the poor thing, but he is finally eating.** That was all the note said. Of course John would be eating and drinking by now, knowing he would need strength to survive.

 _Probably wondering how he hadn’t been rescued yet._ Sherlock had analysed the surveillance footage from where John was kidnapped, looked for clues in every humiliating, ridiculous note Moriarty sent and still, he didn’t have enough to go on.

\---

He had watched food arrive and be taken away meal after meal. As much as he appreciated the discipline of resistance, he needed to eat and drink if he was ever going to have the energy to try to escape, should the opportunity even present itself. So this time, he hunkered down in front of the hateful little bowls and drank the water. His stomach growled and he proceeded to eat what was actually a pleasant fish dish, once he got past the presentation. He nearly regretted it a few hours later when he needed to call someone again, remembering Moriarty’s threat all too well. “I need to use the loo,” John called out. He hated it. He hated not even having that modicrum of autonomy in this place. Since the first day, he had silently thanked God that he was at least actually escorted to a toilet and not some giant litter box. That and the fact that the guard actually stood around the corner even if he wasn’t allowed to shut the door. So little to be grateful for. _This was how they wore you down. Keep you under such strict control that the smallest things seem like grand privileges. Shouldn’t it work less if I know they are doing it?_

After a moment, a guard appeared from the darkness just outside, unlocking the room sized cage and stepping inside. He took out a tiny key and proceeded to unlock each mitt. Bathroom breaks were the only time they ever came off and they were immediately replaced with handcuffs. At least they chaffed lower on his wrists. _So full of gratitude today, aren’t I?_ John thought bitterly.

He was marched down a hallway, past the showers, basically tiled rooms to hose down, rather more literally than one might hope. He shivered slightly at the memory of the icy cold water. They reached the tiny bathroom.The first day, he wished he had been graced with a mirror, which he could break and use to stab the guard, but apparently they were smarter than that. By now, _was it the fifth day? the sixth?_ ,he was almost grateful. He was wearing thin and didn’t want to see that on his face, or see the damnable ears drooping.

He was made to bend over and the guard removed the tail, setting it in the sink. “Wash that well when you are done and I’ll be gentle,” he said with a cruel, leering smile that suggested he’d rather not be.

When John was finished using the facilities and washing up, the guard did take out a small bottle of lubricant, which he applied rather more thoroughly than necessary, his fingers sliding deep inside and out several times before seeking out and pressing against John’s prostate. Gentle as promised, yes, but invasive and horribly intimate. John gritted his teeth at the sensation, feeling like he might be sick, and he shuddered as the guard reinserted the tail.

The reaction provoked was strictly biological, but that didn’t stop this goon’s teasing, “There’s a good kitty,” he mocked as he drew one hand down over John’s hair, trailing down his spine, in long smooth strokes. Petting him. The other hand grasped John’s, now half hard, prick. “I could help out with this if you ask pretty.”

“Go to hell.” John spat and immediately wished he hadn’t. The guard’s hand gripped painfully before he kneed John. As he doubled over with pain and he tried desperately to catch his breath, the guard pulled a blue nylon muzzle from his pocket. It was forced over John’s face, but as the guard tried to buckle it in place, John spun, kicking him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him. John used his forearm to nudge the muzzle off, regaining his vision and breathed easier as it fell to the floor. He slid his handcuffed wrists over the guards head and choked him with the chain, hanging on as he kicked and spluttered. Just as he went still beneath John, two guards rushed from down the hall. Strong hands gripped him, one hand clamped over his mouth and nose, trying to cut off airflow just long enough to knock him unconscious. John bit down hard.

That guard lept back, shouting, “Bloody bastard bit me.”

John felt the prick of a needle at his neck and hands dragging at him, pulling him off the guard. _Fuck._

One guard checked his downed comrade. “Parker’s gone.” Things were growing hazy as he heard the guards cursing. He was half carried, half dragged back to his cage, mitted and dropped onto his bed. Dizzy, his vision fading in and out as he fell limply onto the bed, barely able to curl in on himself as one of the guards kicked him in the ribs. The other dragged him away, shouting, “Come on. The boss decides how we deal with him.”

Then everything went black.

* * *

 

In case you have never seen a [cat muzzle](http://happytailsdiscountpetemporium.net/images/blue%20cat%20muzzle.jpg).


	3. Chapter 3

When he finally woke, he panicked, flailing out, trying desperately to get free of whatever covered his face. He felt a strap around the back of his head just under the hateful ears cinched cruelly tight, followed by the one at the jaw line, which dug in so painfully at the neck when he tried to speak that he actually cried out, a sad little sound through forcibly clenched teeth. The fabric covered eyes, and mouth, leaving only a small hole for his nose. It wouldn’t budge, but he began to calm down as realized that he could breathe perfectly fine. It was hard to see and impossible to talk, but as he could breathe, he forced himself to take a few calming breaths. 

He experimented with any sort of talking or sounds he could make. It was difficult to articulate anything with his jaw forced shut and muffled by fabric. He tried not to think about how he would signal that he needed the loo. “...until you need to be stitched back together” echoed in his head. Miserable, he crawled to his bed and lay down, letting sleep take him again.

\---

Sherlock could not rip the packaging off fast enough. The note fluttering to the floor where it remained. Moriarty’s taunting wasn’t important at the moment. There must be another clue in this, something to narrow down where John was being held, tortured. The color of the stones wasn’t enough to go on. There were too many possible buildings and not enough manpower to search them all, though he had nearly asked Lestrade to start. He took a breath to steady his hands as he slid the DVD into his laptop and hit play. 

The distinctive click of metal sounded from off-screen, undoubtedly as the gate was unlocked. John sat up with alacrity, clearly startled, panicked even, as he sorted where he was and why he couldn’t really see. The ears perk up. It seemed whenever he was most alert, they moved. He shook his head involuntarily, as if to dislodge them, though of course he couldn’t.

The muzzle looked uncomfortable, not merely designed to humiliate, but the straps were pulled tight enough to dig into his flesh. He was still naked aside from the cat paraphernalia and deep purple bruises were starting to bloom along his ribs on the left side. New enough that they hadn’t faded to green or yellow and in fact still looked pink around the edges, the size and shape of the bruises indicative of boots.

“You will want to watch that mouth,” Moriarty said, stroking John under the chin. “Grateful you haven’t needed to ask for anything?” he inquired with a cruel smile. “If you think you can behave now, tap your paw twice and I’ll take it off.”

John hesitated just a moment, then dropped his head. He let out a resigned sigh and tapped twice.

Damn it, Sherlock though. Nothing new to be garnered here, except that John’s resolve was failing and he still had nothing to go on! _There must be something. Think. think!_

\---  
Disgusted with himself, but sore from the buckles digging into his skin and longing for unobscured vision, John gave in and tapped with his “paw”. He asked himself for the millionth time, _What the hell is he getting out of this?_

“Good kitty,” he intoned as he signaled a guard to unfasten the restrictive muzzle. “Time to exercise.” His singsong voice made it sound like a treat. 

Moriarty snapped a leash onto his collar and led him out of the cell. Moriarty jerked the leash and John went gracelessly to his knees, glaring as he was made to crawl. As tempting as it was to trip him with the leash, he had a fair idea what the guard would do if his boss was harmed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took a bit longer. I hope it was worth the wait. 
> 
> I should finish the next chapter in the next few days! Your comments have been really encouraging. Thanks!

Crawling along the seemingly endless hallways was a chore in itself. He had been run up and down a few of the hallways, but most of the guards had let him actually remain upright and it had been nice to be able to stretch a bit. 

Exercise with Moriarty, on the other hand, could mean anything. 

\---  
The first day had involved chasing little red dots in a darkened room. His only direction had been, “If you stop before the timer goes off, you get to discover which are the laser pointers and which are the laser sights. Good luck.” He was absolutely mad and there was no doubt in John’s mind that he would do it. It had seemed to go on forever, whichever dot moved, he followed, disregarding his cramping muscles, his sore knees, fighting through the residual fogginess from whatever they had knocked him out with to get here. At last the timer had beeped. 

John shuddered as he heard one of the guards, “Can we play with the kitty. I wouldn’t mind teaching him a few games myself.”

But he was cut off by one of the others “Shut it. You can walk to Old Brompton when we are done and pick up one of the sluts there. You’re working here. There may be perks occasionally, if you wait for it.”

“And while you are waiting, perhaps you’d like to record our address as well?” Moriarty had shouted, then added, “Shoot them.”

Two of the red dots danced for a moment before finding their targets. The shots were deafening in the small room. John winced, clenching his jaw as the blood splattered across his shoulder.

“Sorry about the mess.” Moriarty said sweetly as he signaled the others to start cleaning up. “Well, at least you know I wasn’t bluffing. And anyway, you did so well for your first day.” He petted John’s hair, praising him as a very good kitty, even as John shuddered under his touch. The coppery smell of blood was somehow right. 

The shower was frigid and unpleasant, but at least he was clean and there was a break from the hated ears and tail. When he was led back to his cell, he noticed a massage table. Once he had realized that this did seem to be a genuine reward, he relaxed into it as best he could. The masseuse was actually quite good and his shoulder did feel better afterwards. He tried taking the tail out and learned that a few moments of comfort were not remotely worth the cost. For the rest of the day, he had alternately slept, and paced the cage looking for weaknesses. He had found none.

\---

The days blended together and overlapped. It was hard to keep track of time, lulled by the sameness of it. He tried to let himself fall into the rhythm of lights on, lights out, food, rest. 

He didn’t survive a goddamn war to be broken by a madman in this place. He could endure some fucked up games in a bloody costume. He had honestly been forced to chase a wind-up mouse and was hand fed sweets when he caught it. 

But some of it got to him. He hated being touched, loathed each and every one of those that tried. And he just couldn’t …some tasks were really beyond endurance. On one hideous occasion, he had nearly dislodged the tail while crawling about in one of the damnable games. He shuddered as he recalled how it had been removed for the remainder of that round, but he had been forced to lick the tail clean before it was returned to what he had been informed was its _proper_ place. Even as humiliatingly, thoroughly clean as he knew he was, he could hardly stomach it. 

But he wasn’t about to be shot here. He had held on to the idea that this simply wasn’t how John Watson would die. So he each morning, steeled himself for whatever the day held. He could do this. Whatever it took, he would survive this.

\---

Today, the cement was rough on his knees, broken in places. Certainly unswept. He was bitterly grateful that at least the mitts protected his hands, but his knees felt scraped and battered.

At last they arrived at a large room, some sort of main hall. The paint was peeling, but it seemed otherwise clean and in decent repair. It was furnished, albeit sparsely, a few recliners and several tables scattered about, where guards were reading, playing cards, smoking. Whatever this was originally, it now seemed to function as the break room for this operation. He hadn’t been in a room that felt this normal for days and he couldn’t help looking at the furniture with longing. Even the carpeting, soft under his knees, was a welcome relief after the concrete and tile floors he had crawled over to get here. 

Moriarty patted his head as he unfastened the leash. Sitting in the plushest looking chair, beside which stood low table with three baskets. He picked a jingling ball from one and tossed it. 

At first, John had knelt motionless at the center of the carpet. He understood then that he was to fetch the little ball, its bell jingling as it rolled past, but he didn’t want to play. He was exhausted, pissed off and his shoulder fucking hurt, on top of the rest of this bullshit. Besides, whatever Moriarty was planning in retaliation for killing the guard, it was hardly going to get worse when he wouldn’t chase this goddamn ball.

That is what he thought, before the shocks began. The exposed sole of his left foot, then the right. Moriarty laughed cruelly as he jumped. 

“Get moving!” He screamed. John hesitated a second longer and felt the next shock at his calf. “Shall we go higher?” Moriarty asked sweetly, his voice returning to the saccharine sing-song lilt, so disconcerting when paired with the menace in his eyes. John scurried after the ball, trying not to think what that would feel like on his balls. He caught up with it and struggled to pick it up in his mitted hands, only to have it roll further away. 

“Ah-ah-ah” Moriarty had admonished, three quick little sing-song grunts of mocking negation, like telling a small child not to do something. “With your teeth. Put that mouth to use or you’ll find yourself biting the pillow of your pathetic little bed while all the remaining guards do with you as they like.” He pause a beat before adding, “They are not at all pleased with the loss of their friend.” 

As soon as John had retrieved the ball, Moriarty beckoned and John crawled over, dropping the ball into his hand. “Good kitty, Johnny boy,” Moriarty pronounced, tossing the ball once more. They did this a few more times before Moriarty added two more balls and began timing him.

When John retrieved all three before the timer went off, Moriarty picked up a blue ball of yarn and held it out, pinching one end between thumb and forefinger. He let it fall to the floor. “Chase,” he said, giving John a little nudge with his foot. “Unravel it all. There’s a good kitten. Scamper now.” 

Inside, was a Malteser and a scrap of paper, which simply read **Tea**. 

He was allowed to rest and stretch, even standing if he wanted, for five minutes. Actual tea was brought in, strong and sweet and hot, the experience only slightly dampened by drinking it from a ceramic bowl on the floor.


	5. Chapter 5

By now, they were up to 6 tiny, jingling balls and he was blindfolded. Aside from the tea, he had earned a warm shower for tomorrow and an actual chair would be brought to his room for the afternoon. He would even be allowed to remove the tail and sit properly. He was not sure which was more of a comfort. 

Failure would surely result in some sort of punishment. He thankfully hadn’t needed to find out what that would entail so far, and he quite preferred it that way. Besides which, he couldn’t help but wonder, if electric shocks were a warning, what would the actual punishment be? 

So, he ran. Well, as close to running as he could get on hands and knees. The ears perked up as he concentrated, trying to track the tinkling of little bells. It was bad enough with his eyes open. Blindfolded, he knew already that he’d never make it in time.

The tail made things more difficult jostling against him as he ran. At least he had learned to scamper about without pulling on it. It shifted inside, pressing against his already swollen prostate. Constant stimulation more grating than titillating, but nonetheless causing embarrassing reactions and making running more difficult. 

When the timer went off, Moriarty removed John’s blindfold and held two red balls of yarn up before dropping them. “Off you get. Unwrap your surprises.” Inside each was a strip of paper. The first said, “suck off one of your captors”. Moriarty clarified that it didn’t matter where the come landed as long as the act was completed. The second ball revealed his other option, to lap up the come from a bowl, but he would avoid participating in any actual sex act. The number of participants filling up his bowl would be equal the number of balls he had failed to retrieve. 

John was not gay and certainly wouldn’t choose these men if he was, but he was a doctor. If he was catching something from this ordeal, it would be more related to the ejaculate. But sex feels more participatory. But if he had chosen it, would it feel less like rape? Better or worse? John was caught in a mental loop, and when he paused too long, Moriarty gave a signal. One of the guards stepped forward, delivering a shock to John’s right thigh. “Both then?” Moriarty queried.

“No, please,” John said and accepted sucking off one guard.

“Full of surprises, Dr. Watson,” Moriarty smiled. “I’ll even be especially kind. If you squint I’m sure your imagination can take over.”

John wanted to feign ignorance to Moriarty’s implication, but when the slender dark haired lad stepped forward, his meaning was all too clear. Of course it had to be the kindest of his tormentors, the one John had always wondered how he ended up in Moriarty’s service. Thomas was the only one he knew by name. 

And his eyes were bright with unshed tears, as though he didn’t want to do this any more than John did. 

_Shit._ John clenched his jaw. 

“I was generously not timing this little event, but I could, if you both need the encouragement.”

John crawled over and knelt up in front of the chosen guard. The guard’s hands went to unfasten his trousers, but he froze as someone shouted, “Naw, let _him_ do it.”

John glanced down at his mitted hands in confusion. 

“With your mouth, you imbecile”

John clumsily mouthed the closure, trying with lips and tongue and teeth to ease the button through the hole. Eventually it popped free. He managed to lift the zip tab with the tip of his tongue and used his teeth to pull it down. _God, he wasn’t even hard._ John had glanced at some of them once he knew his choices, and certainly several had been. He wasn’t exactly sure why that would have made this easier. 

“What’s wrong? You seemed to care so much for our dear kitty, I thought you would like some time together.”

The taunting wasn’t going to help. Best get this over with. 

John let his breath ghost over the man’s soft prick before taking it into his mouth. He began to suck, trying to focus on what he had enjoyed with girlfriends in the past. As he licked the frenulum he could feel Thomas start to harden, pleasure overriding whatever he may be feeling about the situation in which it was taking place. John stopped sucking and lapped from bollocks to glans, trying to track what points that seemed most sensitive. While he had always been an attentive partner, in this case, he was hoping for expediency. _Which would be easier if I had use of my hands._ Taking the hardening length into his mouth, John sucked, focusing his attentions on the glans and frenulum, areas he knew were most nerve rich, utilizing whatever knowledge he could to do meet this task with efficiency. 

He began rocking forward, bucking his hips into John’s mouth. His jaw ached as he tried to keep up. John let out a startled whimper and the guard’s eyes flew open, horrified. His erection began to flag. _Shit._

He was so unlike most of the others, who seemed to be growing ever more enthusiastic as they watched John struggle, but unfortunately, he was what mattered if this was ever going to end. 

John looked up, meeting Thomas’ horrified stare. John did his best to convey acceptance, pleading with his eyes and the tiniest nod of his head as he leant forward, letting his lips slowly slide down the shaft, never letting his eyes leave Thomas’. _Thank Christ, it was working._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. Thank you so much for taking this journey with me. I hope you liked it. Thanks especially to those who have commented along the way. You have no idea how much your comments mean to me!
> 
> Thank you also to my brilliant beta, mistresskikisshiphassailled, without whom I would never have gotten through this.
> 
> If you would prefer the fic to end happy fluffy don't read the next chapter. I decided I want to give people the option. I tried to add it in white at the end so those who wanted could highlight, but I don't seem to have the ability on AO3, or couldn't figure it out. Any suggestions?

When he awoke the following morning, John could see a sleek black tail, a pair of matching ears and mitts and a steel-grey collar with red stones neatly hung on the wall just outside his cage. It was obvious who they were meant for, even before he could read the tag occasionally glinting in the light. Neatly etched initials, **S.H.**

The threat was clear even before it was expressly articulated, but his conversation with Moriarty later that morning confirmed his suspicions. If he fucked up again like he did with killing the guard, they would simply take Sherlock. All his energy was focused on rescuing John at the moment. He was distracted, eating poorly, hardly sleeping. He would never be prepared for them. And if Sherlock couldn’t find him, who was there that could find them both?

\---  
Moriarty stood behind John, who was allowed to stand. He angled them towards the guard who was acting as videographer. As he stoked John to hardness, he occasionally heard the click of a camera, but he had stopped really paying attention to that after the first few days. There must be hundreds of pictures by now. _What the hell is he doing with them all? A bloody scrapbook? Please, God, let them not be on the internet._ He assumed at least some of it was being sent to Sherlock.

When John came, Moriarty pushed him to the floor, ordering him to lick it up. As John lowered his head, the toe of a boot pressed against the toy, rocking there, fucking John with it while he complied. He winced at the touch, his tender flesh being further abused.

As he locked John in that night, he said “Daddy has to go now. Be a good kitty, Johnny boy. Stay where you’re put, do as you’re told and remember, if you do anything without permission, I will tear you open. You may have noticed that I always keep my word.” Smiling wide, he added,”Sweet dreams, ” pausing for just the space of a heartbeat before looking into John’s eyes and adding, “They had better be of me.”

Though the words were spoken to John, Moriarty looked straight at the camera just before the screen went black.

\---

Sherlock scanned the screen. Looking for something, anything. But the room was the same as always. No further clues as to location that he could see.

As the video went on, the angles and close-ups were more and more reminiscent of pornography. He had never seen John like this. He never even thought it was something he wanted to see, and yet, there it was. Seeing hands sliding up and down John’s cock, working him to hardness, desire flooded through Sherlock. His hand palmed his cock, already half hard. He was absorbed in the images, didn’t even think about stopping himself, as his hand slipped down the front of his pyjama bottoms, even light contact resulting in a frisson of pleasure. He worked his hand over his own cock, not conscious of anything, unaware even that he was matching the rhythm on screen, as though it were his hand touching John.

It wasn’t until he came, spilling over his hand that he really registered what he had done.  
How could he get off on John’s assault? He felt sick.

Sherlock ran to the bathroom and retched.

\---  
The following day’s package merely contained photos, not even a note. Quite artistic, actually if they weren’t criminal evidence, useless though they would be to finding him. Close up of John’s tense, stubbled jaw, his flushed cheeks and half-closed eyes, his swollen cock, a bead of precome leaking from the tip.

Sherlock's jaw tensed as willed himself to stillness, he had more discipline than to do it again, but the desire was present, making him feel vaguely ill.

The last package arrived later that same day, **Enjoying our little games?** scrawled across the manilla envelope. A belled kitty ball fell into Sherlock’s hand. Finally something to work with!

Sherlock rushed to the lab, working to separate and analyse the particulates on the ball. Microscopic paint chips, dirt, hair, brick dust, vegetation. With the pale granite and concrete floor, there was finally enough to narrow it down to only a handful of possible buildings.

What if there actually was a clue in the last video, but he had missed it, enthralled with John? As the video shifted angles, couldn’t he see just out of the cage? Just a sliver of space. All the other images and film had been angled in.

He made himself re-watch it. The walls were the same and it didn’t register immediately. He had allowed himself to get distracted, but past the wall where the cat toys which were clearly meant for him had hung, he could see down the hallway just a bit.

There. High windows, a bit of old fashioned tiling, just the edge of some kind of cylindrical tubing. A hose? A hose! Oh, the abandoned mental asylum would have a certain je ne se quois, wouldn’t it? Perhaps it would already have had an isolation cage. Certainly showers where they used to hose down patients, _more like inmates._

Driving a man toward madness in a facility for healing? That might appeal to Moriarty. He should have thought of it sooner. If he hadn’t let himself distracted… _this is why you don’t let yourself do these things. sex, attraction, people, all of it. Just muddles the mind._

He explained his theory to Lestrade, showing him the evidence and then they were on the move, police and paramedics in tow.

Jim wasn't there and the two guards he left behind were easily captured. Sherlock grabbed a shock blanket and a set of disposable blue coveralls, busying himself so he didn’t just punch them in the face. He wasn’t sure he could stop once he started and it certainly wouldn’t get him to John any sooner.

As it turned out, it took very little convincing to get them to lead the team to John, one of them even handing over the keys, so the officers could get in more easily. They eventually discovered that only a handful of the guards were there of their own volition, most being blackmailed or coerced in some fashion.

 

\---

John was curled up on his bed when they arrived.

Sherlock rushed to his side, dropping his bundle and kneeling down beside him. John blinked up at him, as though in a dream, until Sherlock grasped his shoulders, “John? Are you alright?”

“Oh, God. You are really here,” he managed, curling into Sherlock’s shoulder, welcoming the rough weave of wool against his cheek, the scent of home that clung to his friend’s coat. Sherlock held him a moment before gently pulling back. He covered John with the blanket and seized his hands, beginning to unfasten the mitts. John spread and flexed his hands, rolling out his wrists. _Christ, that felt good._

Sherlock began to work on unfastening the ears, but stopped. “Oh, I’m sure you’d rather be rid of the tail actually.” Sherlock pressed the coveralls into his hands. “Not the most comfortable of things, but they are almost like clothing, until we find yours. I didn’t think to grab any from the flat.” He looked at John almost apologetically.

They gave him gloves and the blessed privacy to do what he needed, removing the tail, putting on something that at least approximated clothing for the first time in… well, more than a week. He’d lost track somewhere.

When he emerged, they used safety shears to cut through the collar, and it was bagged as evidence, along with all the other accoutrements.

He was examined, questioned, swabbed and photographed, pricked and prodded. A full battery of tests would be run. He was dimly grateful, but at the moment, it just felt invasive, not to mention, hours of further confinement. At least there wasn’t the constant fear of what would happen next. He felt like he could finally breathe.

Now all he wanted was a shower, a cuppa and then to lay in a real bed.

He was sore, and exhausted, but wasn’t sure he could sleep yet. Too much adrenaline. Well that and the fear he would prefer not to acknowledge, that this would be a dream and he would wake up in the cage once more. But as he lay in bed, he heard Sherlock downstairs begin to play. Clearly a melody of his own composing. It spoke to the anger and fear, which had been hallmarks of John’s captivity, but as the music swelled, it carried with it sweet relief and harmony, home and healing and perhaps even _love?_

John smiled to himself and allowed his eyes to slide shut.


	7. 6a

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This should really be the last bit of chapter 6, but I decided I wanted to give the option of happy ending. Really, it still could be, depending on what you think happens next. I am done with this one, but feel free to tell me what you think happens, in the comments.

\---  
When John opened his eyes, blinking sleepily, he registered his soft, warm bed. His room. Home. He was humming to himself as he went to the kitchen to make tea, grateful to walk there unescorted, grateful to be able to do the simplest things for himself.

In the cabinet, tucked into his RAMC mug, was a single handwritten note, **I always keep my promises, pet.** signed with a heart and JM in a graceful flourish.  
\---  
At the sound of the crash, Sherlock rushed to the kitchen.

“John?”


End file.
